


Ramorla

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU of an AU, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Manipulation, Panic Attacks, References to past trauma, inspired by Integration, introspection? if you squint?, or attempted manipulation at least, proper comfort starts with respecting people's boundaries thank you for coming to my ted talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Perhaps the most uncomfortable aspect of sleeping in the same bed as the Mand’alor was that there was no way to conceal the nightmares.(An AU of Millberry_5's "Integration", this will make little to no sense if you haven't read that.)
Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 55
Kudos: 341
Collections: Anonymous, Integration: The Collection





	Ramorla

Perhaps the most uncomfortable aspect of sleeping in the same bed as the Mand’alor was that there was no way to conceal the nightmares.

Back on the cot, things had been much easier. Obi-Wan wasn’t a loud sleeper, by any means, and it hadn’t been unusual for him to wake up with terror seizing his limbs, silent tears streaming down his face, secure in the knowledge that the man behind the ray shield was still sound asleep and unbothered. But there was none of that now. Whatever minute semblance of privacy the cot may have offered was gone, replaced by the uncomfortably comforting arm around his waist and the uncomfortably pleasant sensation of a half-asleep Jango nuzzling at the back of his neck. And it hadn’t bothered him much anymore, didn’t bother him enough if he thought about it, until now.

Now, when the slave collar of Bandomeer and the Sith mask and the dying screams of children from Melida/Daan had mingled into an unbearable clamp around his throat. Now, when, instead of jerking awake on his own and calming himself down in the dark, he had been shaken awake by a frantic Jango calling his name. Now, when in his blind panic and disorientation on waking up, he had lodged his elbow in Jango’s gut, thrust his heel into the other man’s kneecap and rolled off the bed into an undignified heap of bedsheets on the floor, frantically clawing at the phantom feeling of a collar on his throat and blood on his hands.

Qui-Gon.

Cerasi.

Dust in the air and a weight around his neck.

So much blood.

Oh Force.

_Breathe._

Somewhere in the jerky motions of hands scraping at his neck, the two plastoid bracelets on his wrists slammed together, an ugly clack and scrape that grated right into his chest. He brought his trembling hands up and stared at the cuffs, vague shimmers of white and blue in the semi-darkness of the room.

“Obi-Wan!”

He flinched at the voice, which was suddenly close again, much too close, and the hands that now grabbed at his own.

“—to breathe!” Jango’s voice faded in and out between the buzzing in his ears. Fear, both his and Jango’s, swelled in the Force and gushed through the cracks in his shields. “— you alright? Are you hurt?”

The hands were all over him before he had time to unclamp his throat, patting him down, apparently unwilling to trust that he would answer truthfully. His knees twitched up to protect his core even as he brought his hands back up to his neck in a bizarre parody of the safety position civilians learned in airship safety briefings. “I’m fine,” he managed to whisper, “please, please don’t.”

Don’t touch me right now, he wanted to say. Don’t talk to me. Don’t force me to verbalize. I can’t handle you right now on top of everything else.

Deep breaths. In, out.

The hands stilled on his shoulders but Jango was still much too close, breath brushing over the tear tracks on his face. “The kriff I won’t,” he snapped. “Lights to seventy percent.”

He screwed his eyes shut at the sudden brightness, or maybe at the feeling of fingers ghosting over his face, wiping at the tears. The gentleness didn’t negate the way it made his skin crawl, the way it aggravated already over-loaded nerves, the way it stifled and cloyed and jabbed at the panic roiling in his gut.

“Kriff it, Obi, what’s going on?” Jango murmured, scooting closer even as Obi-Wan tried to flinch back from his touch.

This was ridiculous.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, raised his head, and reached out to gently push Jango away. “It’s just a nightmare,” he said, straightening against the side of the bed to put more distance between them. His breaths came in nearly even bursts now, though still a bit too fast to be regular.

“Just a nightmare?” Jango repeated and frowned at the hand still on his chest. The bracelet gleamed against the dark fabric of his sleeping shirt.

Obi-Wan pulled it back and pushed himself to his feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jango was on his feet in an instant, blocking his path, trying to catch his eye. “What’s that on your neck?”

“The fresher,” he told the collarbone in front of him, voice still much reedier than he liked. “Please let me through.”

Jango stepped to the side but then fell into step right behind Obi-Wan. One hand came up to rest on the small of his back, thumb rubbing gentle circles.

The constant touches didn’t usually bother him that much, he reflected as he tried to supress his shudder. Jango just seemed to be a very touch-oriented person when off his guard, and Obi-Wan didn’t usually mind. But now, when any hint of physical contact grated at Obi-Wan, when Bandomeer was fresh on his mind and every cell of his body already hypersensitive to the world around him— now he wished Jango didn’t act like it was his force-given right to touch Obi-Wan whenever he wanted.

“Please stop,” he said quietly, stiffly, stepping away from the hand and into the fresher. “Please.”

“What?” Jango was all the way in his space in a single lunge. Obi-Wan turned the faucet on and one glance at the mirror confirmed that Jango stood right behind him, worry on his face and in the Force, reaching for Obi-Wan’s neck. He’d clearly seen the bloody scratches his fingernails had left there and the flecks of blood in his shirt collar.

“Please stop touching me,” he said as steadily as he could manage, cursing the tremble in his voice and hands. He cupped one of his hands and allowed the water to run into and over it. It dripped down his wrist and slid past the bracelet to soak a dark stain into the fabric of his sleeve. “It’s too much, right now.” Words weren’t really working, still— the struggle of forming coherent thoughts over the low buzz in his ears took up enough energy even without having to somehow express them.

The Negotiator, fresh out of words. There was an irony there that Obi-Wan was too tired to unravel.

The hands wavered for a bit but finally dropped to Jango’s side, concern and worry once again spilling right through Obi-Wan’s shields. He shuddered and frantically shored up his defenses.

“Obi-Wan?”

“It was just a nightmare, Jango,” he said again, and wasn’t it exhausting to have to reassure Jango too, now. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“No need to be sorry,” Jango said and reached out, only to fold his arms and lean against the wall next to the mirror.

But clearly there was, wasn’t there. Because it was the middle of the night and they were meant to be asleep and here Jango was, standing in the fresher, watching Obi-Wan clean the blood off his neck with this accursed tremor in his hands.

“You can go back to sleep if you want,” he told the pink water that pooled in the sink. “I just need to meditate for a bit and I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jango said firmly, “until you’re telling me what the kriff just happened. It obviously wasn’t ‘just a nightmare’.”

Obi-Wan’s heart twisted around and settled somewhere uncomfortably far beneath his ribs. He honestly, truly believed that the man was trying to be helpful. But at the idea of explaining it to Jango, at the idea of putting into words the year-old aches that came back in his nightmares, Bandomeer and Melida/Daan and Naboo and Force knew what else, something inside him balked.

Jango would be kind about it, sure. But his condemnation of the circumstances would be swift and unyielding. Nuance or context would go right over his head and the information would inevitably come back to bite him in a well-pointed jab at the Jedi, or Qui-Gon, or the Republic. Obi-Wan couldn’t, didn’t want to handle that headache right now (on top of the one that already pounded in his skull).

He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and pulled the now soaking shirt over his head. “I can assure you it was nothing more than that.”

Jango scoffed and stepped closer. “Don’t give me that.”

Obi-Wan took a small, smooth step backwards. From the look on Jango’s face, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Jango,” he said quietly and dumped the wet, bloody shirt in the laundry chute. “I get nightmares. This was one of them. I just need to meditate. There’s nothing else to it.”

“Then why were you clawing at your neck?” Jango demanded, following Obi-Wan out of the fresher and to the dresser. “When I woke, you were gasping for breath and grabbing your neck. I thought you were choking! And then you attacked the moment you woke up!”

Because you were too close, Obi-Wan didn’t say as he pulled a new sleeping shirt over his head. Because you were right there, crowding me, and I thought I still had that force-damned collar around my neck.

It was an old panic which periodically resurfaced every few years or so. He supposed he should be grateful it hadn’t reared its head much when he was still being collared every day for mid-meal. That would have been a nightmare to deal with. (Pun unintended.)

One of Jango’s hands landed on his shoulder, the other on his chin, and gently tilted his head upward. It was only a miracle of self-discipline that kept Obi-Wan’s shoulders from snapping up at the contact. “I’m worried about you. I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flitted around the outer perimeter of Jango’s face, still too overwhelmed for eye contact. He didn’t know what to say. “I just need to meditate,” he finally said quietly. Almost like a glitchy holo, stuck repeating the same phrase until it was switched off. “I’ll be fine.” I don’t need you to help me right now, he didn’t say. Nothing you’re doing is remotely helpful.

“Kenobi.” The gentleness had gone out of Jango’s tone, and the hand that had been on his chin settled on his other shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

“’Alor,” Obi-Wan muttered reflexively, and wasn’t it odd how naturally the word shut him up these days. It would be so much easier, so much less hassle, to ignore his discomfort and just tell the man. But something inside him still cringed at the thought. They were still _his_ hurts, _his_ past, _his_ responsibility. Surely it was still _his_ decision to share them. “I’d really rather not go into detail.”

“I insist.” Worry, mixed with an anxious exasperation, accompanied the words in the Force. But something about them, something about the way they were said, with the complete confidence that Obi-Wan would just… just do it, and hang all his compunctions— that made the bile rise in Obi-Wan’s throat. The emotions seemed like those of a friend, the kind he’d felt when asking Anakin about his nightmares. Simple, kind, with nothing but good intentions behind them. And yet the authority they were spoken with tinged them bitter.

When Anakin had refused to talk about his dreams, Obi-Wan had backed down and told his padawan he’d always be there to listen. It wasn’t his place, he’d realised, to make the boy tell him anything. Even as a teacher, he had to trust that his student knew best what would comfort him and what wouldn’t.

(In those last few years, when the war had blown up to previously unknown proportions, more often than not Anakin would spend the wee hours of the morning curled up silently in Obi-Wan’s quarters, shoulder brushing his, finding comfort in the shared space even when words failed to offer any.)

Anakin. Force. Obi-Wan didn’t remember the last time he’d even thought of his apprentice in more than passing. His head suddenly felt much too heavy, much too foolish and selfish and useless, at the realisation and it pitched forward to rest on Jango’s shoulder. He was so tired. He didn’t want to unpack his ancient hurts today, didn’t want to do much except meditate away the phantom pressure on his neck. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered, “please understand.”

Jango’s hand came up to stroke the back of Obi-Wan’s head. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, _cyare_ , it’s alright.”

Sithspit, Obi-Wan knew the other man was _here._ That was rather the issue, actually.

The hand that was rubbing circles on Obi-Wan’s back travelled dangerously close to his neck and he flinched, violently, and took a hasty step backward. “My apologies,” he said, even though he shouldn’t _be_ apologising. He was allowed to step away, wasn’t he?

“Obi-Wan, you are telling me about this _now_.”

Obi-Wan had spent a quite a few years of his life around people who thought they knew what was best for him. A great deal of the time, they were right, but just as often, they weren’t. He’d certainly spent far too many hours explaining to Anakin that yes, he would also _like_ to go to sleep right now, but if he didn’t finish this time-sensitive flimsiwork people would _die,_ so of course he was going to prioritise.

The point being that despite all evidence to the contrary, Obi-Wan was a grown man who knew his own limits. So, it grated at him that Jango was not only stubborn as a gundark when it came to his opinions on Obi-Wan’s wellbeing, but that he could also expect to be able to enforce them.

The damp plastoid cuffs clung to his wrists, and once again he wondered how he’d forgotten they were there.

“Frankly, it’s none of your business, Jango,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “I’d prefer not to talk about it, and I don’t intend to.”

Jango’s brows folded down in a truly fearsome scowl. “It became my business when you kicked me in the kneecap over it, _Kenobi_.”

“That’s only because _you’re_ insisting I sleep in your bed, _'Alor_ ,” Obi-Wan grit out, patience finally fraying. “I’ve been handling these just fine by myself over there!” He pointed to the couch. “Which I’ll be doing for the rest of tonight, actually. I apologise for waking you up.”

He whirled around on his heel, but Jango caught him by the shoulder. “Careful with the attitude,” he snapped. “And what do you mean, you’ve been handling them fine? This has happened before?”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Not like this, no, because _usually_ I can meditate my way through them rather than being crowded into a panic attack!”

“Crowded?” Jango’s voice veered sharply left into the direct neighbourhood of yelling. “I was trying to _help_ you!”

Obi-Wan glanced at the tapestries on the ceiling and asked the Force for patience. “Which I appreciate, but which doesn’t change the fact that hounding me about the content of my dreams and touching me at every opportunity you get is hardly helpful!” He wrenched his shoulder out of Jango’s grasp. “I’ve been dealing with these nightmares since I was thirteen. Surely, surely you understand that I’m better qualified than you to judge how best to cope with them.”

“Thirteen? Kriff, what happened to you? Clearly you’re not coping well if this has been going on for that long!”

That was it. Obi-Wan drew himself up to his full height, folded his hands over his chest to hide the trembling, and channelled the full force of his Negotiator persona. “I think you’ll find that _I’m_ still the best judge of the effectiveness of _my_ coping methods, ‘Alor,” he said with all the detached coolness he could muster (not that he could muster very much, of course, but it was the thought that counted). “Incidentally, I doubt that being enslaved at the age of thirteen is something one ever really copes with _well_.”

Jango’s face crumpled at the word ‘enslaved’. He wiped a hand over his face. “Just… just come back to bed? We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Jango’s ability to somehow listen to Obi-Wan with the same determined intention that coloured his every action and then entirely disregard most of what Obi-Wan said would never cease to amaze him. “I’m going to meditate,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time this night. “I’m not about to go back to sleep in this state.”

Jango let out an aggrieved sigh and grabbed Obi-Wan’s wrist. “I said you’re sleeping in the bed from now on and I meant it, alright, Kenobi? You can meditate there if you have to.”

Obi-Wan pulled his wrist back. “I don’t know why you apparently get off on the need to micromanage every minute detail of my life,” he snapped, “but it would really be a lot easier if you used the same energy it takes to do all that and just _listen_ to me for a change. I am hypersensitive, my shields are leaky, and I’m still in the direct neighbourhood of a full-blown panic attack. The last thing I need right now is close contact with anyone, never mind _sharing a bed_. So if you would stop touching me, leave me alone, and allow me to do the things that I _know_ will help, that would be _much_ appreciated.”

He didn’t even wait for an answer, just whirled around and settled pointedly on the floor in the corner of the room usually reserved for meditation. He’d handle the fallout tomorrow, he decided, as he listened to Jango curse under his breath, turn on the ray shields, and loudly stalk over to the bed before barking, “Lights out!”

For now, he’d just ignore the way the plastoid cuffs continued to chafe at his wrists like they hadn’t done in months.

**Author's Note:**

> When I first read Integration, it really pulled a Lolita on me (in the sense that every time I realised I was enjoying it I had to consciously pull back and think. hm. that’s… actually incredibly messed up). So this is me trying to cope with the crushing sense of discomfort. It’s wildly improbable in the wider canon of the AU, I’d say, and even then it’s not exactly much of a victory for Obi-Wan.  
>   
> Ultimately this is just 2k of meandering around the specifics of why I find their dynamic so uncomfortable when I stop to think about it. you would think that's rather obvious but I am nothing if not unnecessarily verbose  
>   
> (You can blame the lockdown both for creating this and for lowering my inhibitions enough to actually post it! it's my first foray into the ~intimidating~ world of fanfiction, so feedback is encouraged and appreciated)


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